Beyond School

wrote Mark Twain, “have been greatly exaggerated.”

True here as well, but only slightly.

Autopsy

The lines from Nick Cave’s song, “Hallelujah,” sum it up:

My typewriter had turned mute as a tomb
And my piano crouched in the corner of my room
With all its teeth bared

Change “piano” to “Gilgamesh” and there’s not much more to add.

Since moving here to Singapore from Seoul in July I haven’t written a word on this space. This is due to many factors: enervating humidity (we’re about 1 degree from the equator here), an hour-long (and offline) subway commute to and from my new teaching job each day, the time demands of familiarizing myself with a new curriculum and school (the “two days ahead of the students” syndrome), on and on.

And then there’s the burn-out from the writing job last year, when two posts a day on US education policy taught me that mandatory writing on a prescribed topic grows toxic — a lesson that has informed my classroom blogging policy this year, which is so minimal as to be almost non-existent.

Also — and students, skip this part — I’ve been suffering a health issue that reminds me, to compare a worm to a dragon, of Keats being told by his physician not to write any more poetry because his health was too fragile to withstand the excitement. For Keats, tuberculosis was the issue. For me, it’s merely smoking. Since college, coffee and tobacco have been my study-and-writing enablers, and successfully kicking the habit months ago coincided with an inability to sit still, focus, and write. I can’t help but suspect Keats was tempted to decide, “Screw it, life without writing is no life at all,” and I’ve fallen to that temptation myself. To push the Keats trope further, my own

…fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has glean’d my teeming brain,
Before high-piled books, in charactery,
Hold like rich garners the full ripen’d grain

have prompted me to choose an early death with a higher word-count, if that’s the choice. I’m hoping I’ll be as lucky as my Scots-Irish grandmother, who puffed her corncob pipe well into her eighties, thus having her vices and beating them too. Sure, those last few emphysemic years were no fun, but a life should be judged by more than its feeble final years. So yes, I’m enjoying this writing because I’m enjoying a smoldering clove-stick and cup of coffee as I write. Let the bodies fall where they may. (And though I know the logic is flawed, I’m still compelled to add that yes, I smoke, but I’m constitutionally and philosophically disinclined to those just-as-deadly but socially-sanctioned killers known as alcohol and junk food, so before you condemn my lungs, dear moralists, check your livers and your waist sizes.)

Then there’s this blog itself.

First, my RSS feed was, and may still be, broken because of a WordPress plugin I was using. I couldn’t fix it, and the plugin developer’s offer to fix it for me may or may not have been carried through on, I’m not sure. (If any kind soul out there can reply and tell me if they got this post in their feed-reader, I’d appreciate it.)

Second, I’ve been conflicted over the evolution of this blog from teacher-geek stuff to personal narrative writings to “unsucky” literary lectures. It’s become such a hodgepodge I’m probably going to make a couple of new sites: one for the unsucky lectures, one for the personal narrative, and keep this one as the ramblings of a teacher-geek. I don’t know.

So that’s the dreary side.

“The Bright Side of Life”

(Yes, that’s Monty Python’s Life of Brian on the right. My Wordpress captions aren’t working, blast it.)

1. Rediscovering the Book

On the upside, my hiatus from the web has turned me on to the beauties of something I’d almost forgotten: books. My reading habits before my web-hiatus were almost totally dominated by my Google Reader. And while the subscriptions to blogs and newspapers and magazines and journals and whatnot were certainly enjoyable, I can’t say I’ve missed them as I’ve enjoyed the flow through hundreds of physically-bound pages of this writer or that: Gwendolyn Leick’s fascinating study of the first Sumerian and Babylonian cities in Mesopotamia: The Invention of the City (yes, dear Unsucky readers, I’m burrowing into the scholarship of the worlds of Gilgamesh), Richard E. Rubenstein’s Aristotle’s Children, a magnificent story of the rebirth of Aristotelian philosophy and natural science in the theology and liberal arts departments of late Medieval universities, and, currently, John Gribbin’s gripping Science: A History: 1534-2001, which picks up admirably where Aristotle’s Children leaves off.

2. The Mental Party of Teaching Chinese and European History

I’ve also had the intellectual joy-ride of my life this semester in my teaching duties, where I teach a survey of Western Civilization on one day, and a survey of Chinese Civilization on the alternating day. Since I began both courses where all histories of civilization should start — with Adam and Eve dropping from the sky (–oops, wrong century) Ardi and Lucy evolving from earlier forms, and their descendants migrating out of Africa and into Eurasia — each course stayed pretty much in sync, chronologically, with the other. This means that Monday would pull my head into the Roman Empire, and Tuesday into the roughly contemporaneous Han Dynasty. I can’t tell you how hilariously this mental tour pricked European pretensions to “high civilization” compared to China — particularly in the thousand years between the fall of Rome and the Renaissance, when Europe was a disgrace fully deserving the “barbarian” label the Chinese affixed to it. (In fairness, though, while China wins the “long view” award, Europe wins the Palm for the brief miracle from the Renaissance to the Enlightenment. That China couldn’t discover over its 3,000 years of fairly stable and unbroken civilization what Europe did discover in a mere couple of centuries says something precious, its Mephistophelian implications aside, about Western culture.)

3. Notes on the New School (and a Teacher-Geek Heresy)

Teaching itself has been somewhat interesting. The students at my new school are generally the most literate of any school in which I’ve taught. The ninth-graders (14 and 15 years old) write uncommonly well, and the boys are especially delightful for being, in general, more mature and mentally turned-on than the girls (it’s usually the other way around at this age, in my experience). The school is going mandatory laptop for each student next year, but this year it’s only optional, requiring laptop cart check-out and other aversions. So I’ve avoided any ambitious digital projects, for the most part. (I’ll be sharing a couple of exceptions soon enough, and launching a new website I’m very excited about that bubbled up with the help of my best students.) Some of you will cringe to hear that I’m leaning toward traditional teaching anyway, simply because I don’t have the energy to try to de-program students who want school to remain traditional, and can’t be bothered to notice their future won’t be the paper-based world of their school — in other words, I’m tired of casting digital pearls before the lovable young piglets who just want worksheets, and to heck with all this Diigo nonsense. Maybe that will change next year, when they all bring laptops to school. Right now, the web is too beautiful to waste on the young. (Go ahead, teacher-geeks, set up your stakes, gather your faggots, and send your Inquisitors for this heretic. Ecce homo! But I’m using Ning for both classes, if that will soften your ire at all.)

Shocking Crisis of Classroom Faith: “Google is Dead!”

(or, “No, Virginia, There is no Santa Claus”)

Speaking of Ning and my “minimal classroom blogging,” I may as well add this tidbit. To ameliorate the misery of having to grade millions of heartlessly perfunctory blogposts by students only doing it for the grade, another teacher and I worked out a rotating “four bloggers per week” routine. All the other students not blogging that week only have to reply a couple of times to the posts of the week that caught their fancy. Long story short, one very bright student decided he would investigate the glowing characterization of Mao Zedong during the Long March in a PBS documentary we’re watching in class. He wrote a post with all sorts of questionable claims and characterizations that made Mao out to be far less impressive than even Western historians and academics admit him to have been in this period. And he didn’t cite or link to his source.

I found the source easily enough, and was aghast at its quality: riddled with weasel-words, blazing with bias belying its “FactsandDetails.com” title, a train-wrecked “Works Cited”, red-stained with cherry-picking the bads and omitting the goods. It would take a page to count the ways this site failed as a credible source. Turns out it was written by a guy with no authority, either academic or algorithmic (have you seen Shirky’s latest on this?). So I assigned all the students to read and reply to two student posts: one, a good exemplar that would play Trojan Horse for the second one, the uncited Mao smear piece. I wanted to see how many students would read the smear and reply skeptically.

Almost none did. Even the best students, with very few exceptions, swallowed it whole: “Wow! Your post shows how biased the PBS documentary we’re watching in class, and the textbook, are! Now I realize what a monster Mao was.” Et cetera and ad infinitum. A perfect “teachable moment” about media literacy.

Or so I thought.

Long story short, when I showed this class everything dubious about this site, they pushed back something fierce: the “A” students fiercest of all. I opened it up for debate on a Ning forum, saying “persuade me this source is valid for academic research,” and the push-back continued.

Discussing that second debate in class, I was gob-smacked to hear, again, the “A” students draw conclusions that if this site was not credible, it logically followed that no site was. “Nothing is true. Everything is permitted.” One student pushed back against my example of peer reviewed academic journals with an alleged case of the tobacco industry publishing “smoking is healthy” research in peer-reviewed journals, and seemed to glower at my request that she substantiate that claim — I had no doubt that the tobacco industry funded and published “scientific” studies of this sort, but did doubt whether she was correct about them being published in peer-reviewed journals — and also at my response that she was only confirming, if correct, my position that several evaluative criteria must be satisfied in order to judge a website credible.

I can only hope the quick demo of the “link:url” Google search, which showed that no site linked to this page but other pages on the same site, by the same author, brought home to some students that there’s something to be learned. But they’re at that dangerous age, and due to the imperative to cover the content, I can’t spend time taking this lesson any further. I can only hope the seed was planted and they’ll remember it differently in the future — hopefully not after a professor reams them for using a website written by a dog in its underwear.

Anyway, the take-away: students shouldn’t reach age 16 or 17 and still be shocked that Google can be wrong. It seems to have hit them worse than the news that there is no Santa Claus.

Piano image by poportis
Life of Brian image by tnarik

[The Unsucky English Gilgamesh series so far: 1: Dangerous Questions ~ 2: The Day I Thought Gilgamesh Would Cost Me My Job ~ 3: Adam and Eve, Backwards ~ 4. The Seven Deadly Sins, Backwards ~ 5. Good, Evil, Nature, and the Hero, Backwards ~ 6. Gilgamesh and the Dawn of Man ~ 7. This Post ~ 8. The Modern Mischief of the Gilgamesh Poets]¹

Gilgamesh - the Earth's Oldest Epic. Stephen Mitchell's fine 2004 adaptation.

We last left Gilgamesh laughing at the elders for urging him to fear the gods and doubt his own ability to do what none have done before. We noted it was perhaps the first Humanist’s laugh in world literature, 2,500 years before Socrates laughed similarly at the pious believers in Zeus.

Gilgamesh and Enkidu are almost, almost ready to embark on their quest to kill Humbaba, the guardian of the sacred Cedar Forest who is sacred to the god Enlil, but evil to several other gods and goddesses, in the wonderfully grey and grown-up moral sphere of the Sumero-Babylonians, so different from the black-and-white moral simplicity of other, more familiar, religions.

But before we follow them out the gate, we have one more stop to make with our two heroes: the Temple of Ninsun, the goddess who is Gilgamesh’s mother. It only makes sense to visit your mother before you leave to court death (I did the same with my best friend when we left my hometown in the ’80s to hitchhike across America all summer, come what monsters may). It makes more sense when she’s a goddess who might pull some divine strings to help you survive your adventure.

It’s an episode with a few details worth pausing over.

Worship on the Heights

We see in this scene, for example, another instance of Sumero-Babylonian religious ritual that causes me envy: their “worship on the heights.” We saw it before in the Temple of Ishtar, the pyramid-like ziggurat atop which, under sun or moon and stars I don’t know, the king seems to have made ritual love to Ishtar’s high priestess. We see it in this scene when Ninsun, after first bathing in “water of tamarisk and soapwort,” arrays herself in “her finest robe, a wide belt, / a jeweled necklace,” and “her crown,” then ascends to the roof of her temple to light incense to accompany her skyward prayer to the sun-god Shamash.

(Can I pause to share that I learned to speak, read and write the Arabic language when I was in the rightly oxymoronic U.S. Army’s Military Intelligence branch back in the ’90s, and that a word I learned there made this prayer-scene a bit mind-bending? The word was not quite “Shamash,” but it was close. It was “shahms” (شمس) – the Arabic word for, you guessed it: sun. The word stretches back to the beginning of human history, and beyond into prehistory. The young god of today’s monotheistic Arabs, Allah, may have taken the throne of heaven from Shamash in Arab religion a mere 1,400 years ago ; but in their language, he still shares heaven with that 6,000-year-oldest god. Shamash still shines on them today.)

We’ll see more of this preference for open-air, panoramic, sky-as-cathedral worship later. I just love it. Synagogues, churches, and mosques should cast a fresh look at their rooftops, and ask if there’s any potential to get closer to the Unnameable up there, instead of down below. [Self-critical update: It occurred to me later that the rooftop heights seem reserved for the elites only - kings and goddesses, so far, in this case. They ascend alone, and return below to the other devotees, from what I can see. I still like the idea, however unsupported it is on second look.]

A Prayer in Babylon’s Defense

Anyway, on her temple rooftop, under the azure dome of Shamash’s sky, Ninsun has her moment on the world-literary stage. She doesn’t blow it.

She asks Shamash the question every mother of a hot-blooded son asks: “You have granted my son / beauty and strength and courage / – why have you burdened him with a restless heart?” Whether intentional or not, I find it interesting that Ninsun’s list of her son’s gifts lacks the gift of wisdom.² Wisdom is what Gilgamesh will gain by the end of the tale – or perhaps only we will, by knowing his story.

Ninsun then goes on to utter what I like to call her “Ode to the Sun” which, in Mitchell’s adaptation³, deserves a place in our anthologies of the world’s religious poetry:

O Lord Shamash, glorious sun,
delight of the gods, illuminator
of the world, who rise and the light is born,
it fills the heavens, the whole earth takes shape,
the mountains form, the valleys grow bright,
darkness vanishes, evil retreats,
all creatures wake up and open their eyes,
they see you, they are filled with joy….

If any eight lines of verse can serve to refute all the Bible’s Babylon-bashing – an example of what mythologist Joseph Campbell calls one culture’s “mythic assassination” of its enemy’s culture – these eight have my vote. They’re not deep or fancy, and that’s their merit: the simple reverence of the lines, especially the image of all creatures waking to be filled with joy at the sight of a new day – they bespeak a gentle gratitude and majesty that gives the lie to the “whorish” slurs cast by the Hebrew and Christian texts. It’s wonderful that the Babylonian text can finally speak for itself again. (I don’t think I’ve mentioned that the cuneiform-imprinted clay tablets containing the epic lay mute and buried under the Iraqi sands for over 2,000 years, until they were uncovered by a British traveler around 1850, and then translated about 25 years later. So from the time of roughly Socrates, through the Roman Empire, Middle Ages, Renaissance, and half the modern period, this story was lost to the world, buried in silence. We’re unbelievably lucky to be alive to hear its ancient voice today. It’s a form of time-travel most of our forebears could not enjoy.)

The Visit Ends, the Adventure Begins

Ninsun goes on to do what so many mothers do who fear for their child’s success: she asks the god to cheat for him. When Gilgamesh and Enkidu close in battle with Humbaba, she asks Shamash to pin him with every wind known to nature – East Wind, West Wind, North and South, with tornadoes and gale and hurricane wind thrown in for good measure – to “make it easy” for her son to kill him.

She then descends and returns to Gilgamesh and Enkidu, and adds one more civilized gift to the recently-civilized Enkidu: a family. Ninsun tells Enkidu that she is adopting him as her son, places an amulet around his neck, and tells him to be a good brother to Gilgamesh. And Enkidu, gentle as ever (but not for much longer, as we’ll see), weeps. He has a mother now, and a brother.

An interesting detail in this adoption scene shows us more about the heirodules, or “temple prostitutes” in Ishtar’s cultic service, that we met in the first lecture. Ninsun says she adopts Enkidu “as a priestess takes in an abandoned child.” So we learn that the cult of Ishtar served a charitable function in Sumero-Babylonian society by serving as orphanages. I wonder what more the scholars can tell us about that.

Gilgamesh and Enkidu then take their weaponry and march past the cheering young men and the well-wishing elders to the gate, and beyond. That weaponry, by the way? Each had an axe that weighed “two hundred pounds,” knives with gold mountings, quivers and bows and armor “weighing more than six hundred pounds.”

You have to wonder if there were ever any Sumerian or Babylonian fundamentalists who took these details literally – and if there were any Sumero-Babylonian literature teachers who countered them with the question we ask of our own variety of literalist today: “Can you say hyperbole?”

1. This series based on the fine 2004 Stephen Mitchell adaptation of Gilgamesh. [↩]
2. Since the Gilgamesh court poets polished this epic over 15 centuries, I lean toward “intentional.” [↩]
3. which in this case hews close to the original [↩]

In recent years, postmodernists have challenged the validity and need for the study of history on the basis that all history is based on the personal interpretation of sources. In his book In Defence of History, Richard J. Evans, a professor of modern history at Cambridge University, defended the worth of history. –Wikipedia: “History“

–the logic of the above quote is sloppy, in my view. Both sides are right: How can we argue with the Postmodernist insight into the basic “constructedness” of all (yes, all) texts? Textual narratives are written by individuals with biases, blind spots, no direct experience, limited sources, and other imperfections. So any historical or biographical narrative, from Gilgamesh to the Gospels to Tacitus to Thomas Friedman, is indeed, as the postmodernists claim, “based on the personal interpretation of sources,” and thus should be read with a healthy dose of skepticism and the need for evidence and logic.

But Evans is also right to “defend the worth of history.” It’s silly to think otherwise. That historians are neither omniscient, neutral, or infallible does not mean that history is unknown or unknowable. The evidence from the past – those letters, journals, books, artifacts, ruins, buildings, maps, and all the rest that we call “primary sources” – attests to the basic facticity of a person or event. Socrates existed and was executed in Athens: this seems safe to say, based on evidence from various sources of the time. But the person of Socrates, his character? Plato says “hero,” Aristophanes says “charlatan,” and a modern philosopher says “anti-democratic villain.” One person, Socrates, is defined differently by three different narrators’ personal (and “scholarly”) interpretations of him. And thinking about those interpretations, and ideally creating our own, does have value for us. Pity any democracy, for example, that is ignorant of Hitler’s fear- and anger-mongering manipulation of German voters to get himself legally appointed dictator. (In other words, pity Bush/Cheney’s United States?)

Again, the point: We need history, but we also need to understand the methods and practices of the historian – the search for evidence, its evaluation and selection, its literal “weaving” into, or omission from, narrative “text.”

Schools, as usual, generally score an F-minus in teaching students this “constructedness” of history. They’re too busy stuffing their victims’ heads with the names, dates, and summaries – the “facts” – that those victims will then be tested on. (In most cases, said victims will remember their test grades far longer than they’ll remember the content, since schools largely teach that grades are more important than learning.)

Anyway, this is a round-about intro to a comment thread I’ve been enjoying on Will Richardson’s recent “My Blogging Legacy” post. In that poignantly mind-bending post, Will imagines his children, after he himself has passed away,

. . . . turning to the computer and accessing an avatar representation of me who carried in him the compilation of all my writing, blogging, photos, movies, oral histories and more that I had created while I was alive. And that avatar was able to sort through all of that information and answer their questions, have a conversation with them in fact, in my voice. At some point in the dream, I realized that the avatar was not only feeding back historical data, but was also using the sum of my work to offer advice and counsel in ways that I most likely would have offered were I alive. Even though I wasn’t there physically, it’s like a piece of my brain lived on, one that was able to provide for my kids a richer understanding of their histories and legacies.

At a certain point, I riffed off Will’s idea, then Christopher Sessums chimed in with this:

I’ve been reflecting on the notion of ghost blogs, i.e., blogs of users who have died. I imagine this phenomena will begin to take on “new life” as the first wave of bloggers move on to that “undiscover’d country, from whose bourn/No traveller returns–” (Shak. Hamlet).

I think about how in meatspace we have a place to go to, to mourn, remember, reflect, pay our respects. What will this look like online?

Your post provides a wonderful vision of how it could be.

Given my own sense of mortality, it makes sense to start thinking/planning now, if only in a brainstorming-sense.

I shot back,

And Christopher, to throw the irresistible local flavor from East Asia in: how will these “ghost blogs” meld with Confucian ancestor worship? The laptop (or holograph) next to the photo of the deceased blogger-ancestor on the altar, behind the incense and candles?

Then Chris wrote:

Wouldn’t that be awesome?

Where do blog posts go when we die? They never cease (provided your ISP is still in business).

. . . . I also like the fact that my identity is dispersed in tiny bytes across the ether. Being a puzzler, i.e., one who enjoys puzzles, I like the idea of searching across multiple forms of representation to create a picture of a person’s life. So I’m not sure I would want my identity isolated in one space, but instead distributed thus requiring those interested in me to explore and put together their own picture of me.

Then I riffed back with a fantasy history or non-fiction writing assignment – biographical writing, specifically. Since Chris then offered – threatened? – to “kiss” me in response (and though I virtually slapped him, I was flattered), I figure I’ll post that assignment idea here. I do think it’s cool enough, honestly, to pass on to any history or non-fiction writing teachers out there. Here it is:

A History Assignment I’d Like to See:

Chris, A belated Eureka-riff re: your “distributed identity”: a creative, project-based biography-writing or historiography teacher or professor could do some cool stuff treating our already-distributed online personae as “primary sources” from which student historians or biographers had to draw to construct a representation of us.

*INHALE*

What I mean is, like, “Write a biographical sketch of X in which X’s public blog represents his/her public life, but X’s comments on others’ blogs represents his/her (more) private life. Construct a narrative of X’s personal life, tastes, and thoughts by analyzing their Flickr photos, LastFM playlists, YouTube favorites, etc.”

I know I’m freer in comments than I am on my blog posts, for example. And that a good reader could infer a lot about me from those other “primary sources” listed above.

It would be even more interesting, from a literacy perspective, to have more than one person construct a biography or history of the same individual. If you and I, for example, had to sift through the same “legacy” Will has confetti’d the web with, odds are we’d construct significantly different identities due to our different selection/omission choices and subjective bents.

Interesting, anyway. Just playing around, whiling away the writer’s block.*

Wouldn’t that be cool? And wouldn’t students learn just how slippery history and biography are by comparing their different narrative constructions? And wouldn’t they learn, sidewise, about how revealing they can be with their online identities, when others decide to sift through them like this, and possibly think twice about what they reveal in all future posts?

—

(*Speaking of that writer’s block, it’s due to many factors: the Project Global Cooling concert went off quite successfully in a downtown Seoul nightclub last weekend, but was exhausting to pull off; I’m in the midst of moving into a new apartment; the last-weeks-of-school madness is full swing; my Airport Express wireless is wonky in my apartment; I’m changing my immigration status; my mother-in-law is still recovering from her stroke; and I’m leaving my school to take a year’s sabbatical, without pay, which necessitates its own host of preparations. Can you say “full plate”? But life is full, anyway, and I’m excited.)

Image: Quite Puzzling by Cayusa

I don’t discuss my years as an English for Speakers of Other Languages (ESOL, a.k.a. ESL) specialist much on these pages, mainly because there are no ESOL students at my high school. But the experience of being a second teacher in the content-area classroom when I wore this hat? That’s some good fodder for thinking beyond school-as-usual.

Any of you who have co-taught or team-taught know the mix of factors that can make it a nightmare or a paradise. Working with fellow history teacher Michael Harvey (now in Abu Dhabi) was a dream. I discuss this in the movie below, and students weigh in on why they liked it too.

I still miss having a second adult in my English and history classes today. ESL aside, it just creates possibilities for better teaching – primarily by giving students the experience of hearing two “expert” adults argue about literary, social, political, and other issues. Michael and I debated such things as Castro’s Cuban revolution, American imperialism during and after the Cold War, the merits of economic, political, and religious systems, etc, with sincere differences. We fenced about them in free-wheeling debates whenever one of us disagreed with the other. We told the students to decide whose arguments had the most merit.

Then we had scotch and nice long talks as best of friends outside of class.

The students loved it. It was learning the family dinner-table way, with two reasonably intelligent, informed adults discussing and debating world events. “Kids” with ears learn a lot that way about thinking and points of view.

So this 2005 ESOL-in-the-Mainstream co-teaching training video I made at Shanghai American School is a good example of team teaching that worked. It’s received good feedback over the years. And notably, it’s about teaching, not about technology. Disclaimer: The dreaded Five-Paragraph Essay rears its ugly head here, but remember – it’s in the context of teaching academic essay-writing and organization for 14-year-olds. I always unteach the 5PE once students have shown they’re ready for organic writing.

It’s my first-ever iMovie, by the way. And enjoy the goofy Baptist preacher look I was playing with back then. I’ve since re-embraced my freak-flag.

[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DOJSD5MGy4I[/youtube]

[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gvS3_6FZ1As[/youtube]

Note: I’ve added this to my Teaching Gallery page.

An interesting issue: A student posts a reflective entry including YouTube video on a class history blog. The video creator is an anti-Semitic apologist for Germany in WW II. The student wrote two remarks that offended him. First,

Today, there are still some racists believing in anti-Semitism just like Hitler. We cannot say they are wrong but we need to be aware of resources they make. Don’t be brainwashed by them! We really should have our own thoughts towards Hitler.

And second,

A video clip that shows about a racist idea towards Hitler. It makes me sick. If you look at the comments, it’s so funny.

Two comments from the videomaker have popped up recently that sent a bit of a chill up my spine. The first came last week:

what the [expletive deleted] you, using my video just for an attack.

Since school is out and this blog is now an “artifact” anyway, I experimented a bit when I saw the comment. I wrote,

[note from the moderator: the above message would have been deleted for its language and lack of any substantive ideas, but since said author claims it’s “his” video, maybe the conversation can move in interesting directions. Mr. “[Name],” if you would limit your profanities, it would be appreciated.]

The author responded with this second comment today:

Alright, you know people have there limits but this is extremely unacceptable for this attack on me and my video.

So much for “interesting directions.” I made the blog post itself “private” after this one. The student had actually written a preface saying “Don’t read this until I fix it” anyway, so I don’t feel unjustified.

[Update: You know, the second comment is so ambiguous, maybe the guy is trying to admit he shouldn't have cursed. Also, his opinion is justified. The student was uncivil and ad hominem in the remarks above. It all goes back, for both of them, to clear and civil writing, in a way. Interesting.]

But to me, this clearly raises some interesting issues about classroom blogging. I’d really appreciate feedback to help make some policy decisions before school starts again next month. Here are the issues I see:

1. The student’s innocent embedding of a neo-Hitlerian video from YouTube created a “teachable moment” about information literacy, source evaluation, and the ubiquity of the Holocaust revisionist movement on the internet. How would you have dealt with it?

2. Ping-backs are enabled on the blog to foster that “real-world connectivity” we value so much as adult bloggers. The rationale is, if students are linking to other content-creators interested in similar subjects, those pings will show up on their Technorati accounts or elsewhere, and potentially invite them to join the conversation. But here’s an example of it getting uncomfortable. Would you disable pings to avoid disturbing possibilities like the one above, or use a different approach? What approach would that be?

3. Free speech issues and “teaching the controversy.” How would you deal with comments from people in the world with unpopular points of view on your classroom blogs?

4. Moderation. Any teacher who has actually done classroom blogging will tell you that moderating before publishing is an enormously time-consuming task. But to not moderate before publication invites incidents like this. So what’s the solution?

Unknown News | Lies from the Bush-Cheney administration

• Partisan? Yes. But also supported by documentary evidence. Could be a resource for Animal Farm, etc. Squealer doesn’t only symbolize Stalinist distorters of the truth, after all.–Clay
  

Political News, Blogs, Humor featuring Republicans, Democrats, Independents and More

• For social studies and contemporary issues teachers looking for a site representing a wide spectrum of positions on US political issues. I can see students using Scenemaker to clip segments from the videos on this site for “quotes” in essays they write about contemporary political issues.Useful for teachers who find one-stop shopping for balancing viewpoints a hassle.
  –Clay
  

Nag Hammadi Library

• It’s hard to overstate the importance of the Nag Hammadi Library for an understanding of the many interpretations of Jesus and Christianity before the Roman Catholic Church–and Imperial Roman police–violently destroyed them. Many of these original Christian texts bear more resemblance to Buddhism than to contemporary Christian belief.

  This website has translations of the early Christian texts that were buried in the 4th Century CE to preserve them from the destruction of the first great book-burning in European history. Essential for religious studies, European history, and informed religious discourse today.

  From the website:

• The Nag Hammadi Library, a collection of thirteen ancient codices containing over fifty texts, was discovered in upper Egypt in 1945. This immensely important discovery includes a large number of primary Gnostic scriptures — texts once thought to have been entirely destroyed during the early Christian struggle to define “orthodoxy” – scriptures such as the Gospel of Thomas, the Gospel of Philip, and the Gospel of Truth.

  The discovery and translation of the Nag Hammadi
  library, completed in the 1970’s, has provided impetus to a major re-evaluation of early Christian history and the nature of Gnosticism. Readers unfamiliar with this history may wish to review the brief Introduction to Gnosticism and the Nag Hammadi Library provided here, as well as an excerpt from Elaine Pagels’ excellent popular introduction to the Nag Hammadi texts, The Gnostic Gospels.
  

Sick of students embedding full-length videos on their blogs and calling that “active learning”?

Scenemaker is one answer to upping the bar for “video commentaries.”

Here’s an example from the middle of a YouTube clip I love about the joys of bachelorhood:

And here’s another about its follies:

I wonder how easy it is to create mashups of these? If anybody knows, I’d love to hear.

In any case, for media studies blogging, for social studies current events or politics foci, and, the more you think about it, for a million more possible units, the freedom to selectively quote moments from much longer videos, and write about and around them, sounds very engaging. I’d like to read student works along those lines: “Watch this” followed by “I showed it to you because” elaborations and insights from the students.

And just imagine them embedding a spoken, rather than written, analysis and reflection of such clips using Flixn.

I can’t wait to play more with classroom blogging next year. I learned a lot in my first six months of trying it in the English and history classroom, but am still a rookie. Summer is already opening up a nice, quiet space for six weeks of “think-alouds.”

Bing, Cheryl, Cindy, Patrick, Lynne, Christina:

I just replied to your comments on the “Missionary Summer” post (sorry, finals prep week). We’ve got the makings right now for a pretty diverse Language Arts collaborative network, just amongst ourselves (plus Chris in Honolulu, who’s traveling in Latin America right now).

I hope we can transfer these talks to the group I made on the Classroom 2.0 Ning. The forums would be a good place for our discussions to branch like the tree they’re sure to become.

There’s so much negative press about 1:1 schools right now. Here’s our opportunity to plan a few learning experiences as counter-examples to the naysayers.

I use the term blog-writer advisedly.

I’m catching up on responding to all my learners’ blogs, using Diigo to leave “teacher-y” comments on sticky-notes that only they can see–which also makes for a great collection of sentence-correction examples on my teacher Diigo bookmarks page–and I come across this post from Lynn:

Quiet Souls: the Living Dead

All Quiet on the Western Front, otherwise known as “the greatest war novel of all time,” is a notably bitter book. I found [myself] making sour smiles as I read–the book had hit the bull’s eye. All Quiet on the Western Front demonstrates the war from the soldiers’ point of view. The book shows how war can take out the souls of human beings and leave them only with their “animal instincts.”

“By the animal instinct that is awakened in us we are led and protected. It is not conscious; it is far quicker, much more sure, less fallible, than consciousness. One cannot explain it….It is this other, this second sight in us, that has thrown us to the ground and saved us, without our knowing how. If it were no so, there would not be one man alive from Flandres to the Vosges” (56, Remarque).

This second instinct seems to be a key element for survival, but it is also destroying them as well. Men step away from their emotions and rely on their immediate needs, just as Muller does.

“They would fit me perfectly. In these boots I get blister after blister. Do you think he will last till tomorrow after drill? If he passes out in the night, we know where the boots–” (18, Remarque)

Muller, in this passage, sounds very cold hearted: he asks his friends when his comrade would probably die. But it is understandable, because civility is not a major concern in war. It is blind killing, without any reasons whatsoever, that matters; it is the soldiers’ paramount responsibility to simply kill the enemies. Thus, the soldiers becoming the living dead–a soul without a soul. They become completely senseless to what civilization has taught them. Instead, they listen to the inner primitive instincts: the strive for dominance, the strive for power, the strive to survive, and mostly, the strive to kill.

Ironically, the authorities glorify this tragedy into what is known as “essprit de corps (26, Remarque)”.

“We became hard, suspicious, pitiless, vicious, tough–and that was good; for these attributes were just what we lacked. Had we gone into the trenches without this period of training, most of us would certainly have gone mad….But by far the most important result was that it awakened in us a strong, practical sense of esprit de corps, which in the field developed into the finest thing that arose out of the war–comradeship” (26,27, Remarque)

As these soldiers become empty shells with no souls, the war goes on. The post-war trauma, the in-war trauma is maybe just enough to take the life out of someone.

Image from Flickr

The quality of Lynn’s writing is obvious, but what isn’t obvious is how she has applied so much of the sentence styling that I’ve been urging my learners to experiment with–with predictably mixed results. (To see the also-mixed student-produced mini-lessons on the sentence patterns I’m trying to make them use, see this link on the 1001 Flat World Tales wiki.)

I’m sharing this as an example of how student blogging can be used as a way to teach writing skills, a la the 6 Traits of Effective Writing and The Art of Styling Sentences, while still avoiding the “blogging as homework” pitfall that comes with assigning the content of the blog-posts. It’s part of the on-going quest to find that magical combination that transforms homework into authentic writing, while at the same time prevents that freedom from being sloppy, non-developmental free-writing.

Earlier in the year, I think I erred in giving students too much freedom to choose their topic. I’d hoped they would rise to my exhortations for them to find one idea from a week’s worth of schooling–in any subject area classroom–to write about and make meaningful. Most of them didn’t, which is a sad reflection on the relevance they find in the ideas at school–and on the students’ intellectual maturity level as well. But I don’t want to let this preference to “write about [the pop culture equivalent of] their cat, Fluffy” (to quote one of Chris Watson’s students in Honolulu) push me into assigning teacher-directed “answer my question” homework.

Starting the whole-class blog for my history class’ World War I to World War II unit, in which they were assigned to write about whatever topic from the week’s student lectures on a reflective, reader-response level, showed me the light. Their posts on this blog were instantly of a higher order of thought than my English classes’, in general, after four months of blogging.

So for the rest of the year (we end in about four weeks), I’m having my English students write about whatever scenes, passages, or lines from our novels that they want (though sometimes within thematic limits that I set). And I’m having them apply new skills–quotation integration and close reading commentary–in these posts.

Actually, come to think of it, Lynn’s post was in response to one of those more teacher-directed assignments. But still, she chose her passage, and she applied those skills.

Go to her blog, and judge for yourself whether her writing was better before I changed the rules and made her write about literature-related topics, or whether this post marks a leap in the general quality of her blog-writing. I’d be curious to hear what you think: could she handle freedom, or did the teacher limits help her grow?

And to “think-aloud” a bit more, I’ll add one more thing I’ve noticed as I’ve read my students’ blogs tonight: though they weren’t, as a rule, choosing to write about Gulliver’s Travels, Candide, or All Quiet on the Western Front, the few students who did write about these works unanimously found them enjoyable, and their sentiments were echoed in other students’ comments to these posts.

Which means two things to me: first, if they like what they’re reading in the English class, then assigning them to write about these works could be enjoyable for them–as long as I don’t kill that joy with stultifying requirements to write the dreaded 5-paragraph essay; and second, it’s really important to select readings that they will enjoy. I know this latter point sounds obvious, but I’ve seen too many teachers assign novels and plays that I can’t stand to teach any more than students can stand reading. But that’s a different topic. For what it’s worth, in any case, 15-year-olds in Korea–many of them fluent but first-generation English speakers–not only could handle Gulliver’s Travels, Candide, and All Quiet on the Western Front; they also enjoyed handling them.

Which strengthens my opinion that we deprive kids the experience of great literature because we insist they can’t handle it (or, if we’re moralists of the Puritanical stamp, shouldn’t handle it). And we teach them kiddie-literature instead.

Maybe it’s because I’ve been wearing too many hats lately: unofficial Tech Coordinator and adviser to our admin, English dept chair, classroom teacher, Moodle and WordPress MU administrator, significant other of a good girl who deserves a good Other;

Maybe it’s because that $100 Thai massage during Spring Break a couple weeks ago aggravated my spastic lower back which, coupled with the sneezing and croup-coughing fits brought on by a sudden and severe bout of bronchitis, led to paralyzing spasms with each–and there were dozens per hour–sneeze and cough (and this on a small, primitive island bungalow in the Andaman Sea);

Maybe it’s a simple and predictable onset, after my “radical” experimentation with classroom blogging, wikis, flat classroom collaboration, and so forth, of a “Thermidorean Reaction“–a period of questioning the Revolution, so to speak;

Maybe it’s because I’ve been teaching (and thus eating, drinking, and sleeping) the satires of Swift and Voltaire all month, and seeing Yahoos and Panglosses everywhere I look–including the mirror;

And maybe it’s the simple arrival of the spring.

Whatever it is, it’s kept me away from this weblog for two or three weeks. And I find this act of sitting back down to write a post strangely alien.

I’m thinking of Jeff, who seems to have been asked to “log off” for a week to experience life without blogging. I’m thinking of the “Secrets of Success” meme that he and Scott were both kind enough to tag me with before I disappeared to Thailand. (If you haven’t read Scott, you really should. Very nice style and substance, and a decent guy to boot, from the few emails we’ve exchanged. Writerly.)

There’s something about that meme that disturbs me (and really, about memes in general–remember, I’ve been reading satires by the masters lately, and they’re good at presenting us with unflattering mirrors). There’s something self-congratulatory about it, something about it that reminds me of all the reasons I refused to join a fraternity in college; there’s something plain vain about it. Me? Successful? Says who? And what does that have to do with improving teaching and learning?

(Jeff, Scott, I’ve read you both voice similar misgivings about this meme thing, and know you’re both just good-natured people with better things to do than cast a cynical eye at such a trivial thing. And keep reading to discover what an arch hypocrite I can be!)

There’s something about Technorati ratings, visit-counters, and such that I’m also beginning to feel Swiftean about.

There’s something of the Caste System in the edublogospyramid that says “Vanity, vanity, all is vanity” to me as well. Have you noticed how the admin edubloggers seem to sequester themselves in the admin edublogosphere, while the EdTech bloggers echo in their level, and rarely pipe in with actual teachers? Maybe I’m wrong, but that’s my impression. And it’s not surprising: institutional habits die hard, and transplant easy. It’s not much of a leap from the physical building to the virtual space for 20th Century power structures. The “democratic” nature of the blogosphere is illusory to some degree. There are exceptions, of course.

We see the term “echo chamber” tossed about a lot in this sphere, and my Bloglines edublog folder confirms it these days. It leaves me with a sense that we’re all trying to master the contours of an avalanche in motion. Web 2.0 tools are popping up and propagating like viruses in Hydra’s heads, and the pace is too exponential for classroom practitioners to handle in any sort of reflective way. The ICT and Edtech specialists have the luxury, it seems, of being paid to keep up with all of this because it’s their content specialty. But this English and history teacher can’t possibly integrate in any thoughtful way the tiniest fraction of the things being touted in the Edtech specialist blogs, I would argue. To even try to do so would lead to more and more instructional time being devoted to training in the latest widgets, rather than developing skills and content knowledge. And it would drive the kids crazy. (Trust me, I’ve found that line a few times in the last few months.)

And the often-written arguments against the necessity of “knowledge” in the age of instant access to facts–”Why do they need to know the causes of WW II when a Google search will tell it to them if they ever need to know it?”–has also set off alarms in my teacher’s head recently. I hope I’m misconstruing this line of reasoning and doing it an injustice, because otherwise, I am increasingly opposed to it. It seems to mistake factual knowledge with deep understanding; it also fails to take into account the simple intellectual pleasure of reflecting on, and making meaning about, all of that data so easy to dig up on Wikipedia. There is an aesthetic value to Understanding Content that can’t be experienced simply by using the web to “get the facts.” We shouldn’t rob students of that intellectual pleasure. It’s priceless, and makes me richer than many of the millionaire parents at my school who just can’t buy this pleasure–and it shows in the quality of their conversations.

I’ve been thinking about student blogging, too–from a teacher’s point of view. I’m no expert, so this is not a judgment, but rather an observation: student blogging in itself is nothing to cheer about. Lousy student blogging is just lousy writing–virtual graffiti of the worst sort. Lousy blogging assignments–blogs as new bottles for sour milk, just a “non-traditional way to turn in traditional homework”–are also nothing to cheer about (in fact, they make cheating dead easy for students, since they can mimic other student responses rather than do the reading).

And then there’s the grading load: how many other of you classroom teachers out there have assigned a quota of weekly blog entries to your students, and discovered that you couldn’t keep up with assessing and responding to that sort of volume? What are your solutions?

I really would like to have conversations with actual high school teachers about their take on the student blogging question–any takers? I suspect many are asking similar questions after venturing in to this world. If anyone knows any blogs, wikis, or (egad) Nings (this week’s Thing, which yes, I’m exploring) where such conversations are happening, please let me know.

I am not saying that student blogging is fruitless. I’m actually happy with a couple of new approaches I’ve implemented:

One is the whole-class history blog, in which all 50 of my history students are authors writing on self-selected topics relating to our class content. It’s much easier to manage and grade than individual blogs, and by and large the freedom of choice they have has made the readings quite interesting. It’s my first experiment with a whole-class blog authored strictly by students, and I think it holds promise. One area I need to improve is to build in student responses to each others’ writing. But really, the blog’s purpose is secondary to the companion wiki-textbook they’re making (I’m quite happy with this project, by the way). In a perfect world, they’d be selecting the top 5 posts per week in some well-managed process, but I haven’t had made the time to design that process. (You won’t see a lot of my comments because they’re posted as Diigo sticky-notes, which only my students can see.)

The other new wrinkle I’m trying is for the students’ individual blogs in my language arts classes. Two things have actually happened there: first, I got the sense that writing was becoming aversive to these ninth graders because I wasn’t prescribing the topics for them to write about. I wanted them to experience writing and develop the ability to find their own ideas. Maybe that expectation is too high for ninth graders generally, or maybe it’s a cultural thing in Korea, where many (most?) kids are burned out on education because their parents make them go to night and weekend school. No wonder they can’t find ideas: their culture doesn’t give them time to actually digest any of the ideas they’re forced to cram each week. (This is quite possibly the deal-breaker for me and Korea, in the long term.)

Anyway, because the “three posts a week” policy was having the opposite effect to what I intended, and most students (save the blessed Three Percent you’ll find in any country who just Have It) were not becoming Writers at all, but instead just Students Even More Negative About Writing, AND because assessing, responding to, and grading that many posts was too much for me, I reduced the load to once a week.

That made them happy. It also made them amenable to accepting the New Rules: for each weekly blog post (which had to be longer), each student had to leave a comment on their own post, explaining why, as writers, they chose the title, idea, image, opening “hook,” etc. If they won’t write a lot–and when they were blogging more, they were generally writing poorly–then they’re going to think more about writing as they write less.

So that’s the latest on that front.

As for that meme: Do I have ten “secrets of success”? No. I do have some things that tend to keep me fairly cheerful, interested, and centered. What the heck are they?

1. Realize that everything will change, and nothing will stay the same. It makes the tough times more of an annoyance and the good times more precious. (Gee, that’s Buddhism 101)

2. Know when you Know, and know when you Don’t Know. It makes you much easier to be around, and more interesting to converse with (and could end countless religious disputes and wars). (Gee, that’s Confucius 101)

3. Deal with the cheerless as little as possible. (Gee, that’s Nietzscheanism 101)

4. Hope for the best, expect the worst. (That’s the Army veteran speaking)

5. Think of the Rest of the World for a change. It’s full of Real People.

6. Laugh at the mirror, whatever direction it points.

7. Keep your mind alive (this is easy advice for a bachelor to give: all of my free time is mine to explore with).

8. Remember wonder. “The greatest miracle of all,” according to Chuang-tse, “is that we are sitting here, talking.” (Gee, that’s Taoism 101)

9. Don’t beat yourself up. Of course you screw up sometimes.

10. Explore Asia: 5,000 years of civilization can’t be that bad. It might account for the remarkable absence of war and violence there, compared to Western history.

11. Don’t be mean: Confucius, Seneca, Buddha, and others were saying it 500 years before Jesus. It’s less the “Golden” than the “Basic” Rule for good people everywhere. (Swift would simply say, “Don’t be a Yahoo, and don’t collaborate with them.”)

(And to raise Scott one:) 12. If Life’s not precious, you’re not rich.

So there it is.

Like my kids, I’m going to blog “less, but more.”